The artist burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter, long, loud, joyous, and rippling as that of a schoolboy’s, again and again renewed as the irritated puzzle written in the housekeeper’s face met his glance. At length he burst out after a tremendous guffaw:
“I am not exactly that sort of a painter, Mrs. Clancy, but I dare say I could do it if I tried; and I will try. I am more in that line,” pointing to the picture of Daniel O’Connell suspended over the mantel-piece.
The cloud of anger rapidly disappeared from Mrs. Clancy’s brow upon this explanation, and in a voice of considerable blandishment she half-whispered:
“Arrah, thin, mebbe ye’d do me a little wan o’ Dan for the kitchen, honey.”
After another hearty peal of laughter Mr. Brown most cordially assented, and, taking his chamber candle—a flaring dip—retired to his bedroom.
“Ma foi,” he gaily laughed, “this is homely. Do I miss my valet? Do I miss my brandy and soda? Do I miss my Aubusson carpet, my theatrical pictures, my Venetian mirror, or my villanous French novel? Not a bit of it. This is glorious; and what a tub I shall have in the morning in the wild Atlantic!”
Father Maurice’s guest was up, if not with the lark, at least not far behind that early-rising bird, and out in the gently-gliding wavelets, buffeting them with the vigorous stroke of a skilful swimmer. The ocean on this still, clear morning was beautiful enough to attract wistful glances from eyes the most blasé. The cloudless sky was intensely dark in its blue, as though the unseen sun was overhead and shining vertically down. The light did not seem of sea or land, but it shone dazzlingly on the low line of verdure-clad hills, on the cornfields in stubble, causing every blade to glisten like a golden spear, on the whitewashed cottages, on the bright green hedges, on the line of dark rock, and enveloping the mountains of Carrig na Copple in the dim distance in blue and silver glory. The colors of the sea were magical, in luminous green, purple, and blue; and out across the billowy plain great bands of purple stretched away to the sky line, as a passing cloud flung its shadows in its onward fleecy progress. The artist felt all this beauty, drinking it in like life-wine, till it tingled and throbbed in every vein.
After partaking of a breakfast the consumption of which would have considerably astonished some of his quondam London set, and having lighted his meerschaum, Mr. Brown set out for a stroll through the village, accompanied by half a dozen cabin curs, who, having scented the stranger, most courteously made up their minds to act as his escort. The inhabitants of the cabins en route turned out to look respectfully at him. Children timorously approached, curtsied, and, when spoken to, retreated in laughing terror. Matrons gazed and gossiped. A cripple or two touched their caps to him, and on every side he was wished “good-luck.” He was Father Maurice’s guest, and, as a consequence, the guest of Monamullin. Whitewash abounded everywhere; amber thatch covered the roofs; scarlet geraniums bloomed vigorously, their crimson blossoms resembling gouts of blood spurted against marble slabs. A shebeen or public-house was not to be seen; order and peace and happiness reigned triumphant.
“A few trees planted down this street—if I may call it so—would make this an Arcadian village. I must ask Father Maurice to let me have them planted. A fountain, too, would look well just opposite that unpretending shop. I wonder where the church can be?”